The Night I Discovered My Grandmother Was a Witch
Growing up, my grandmother was the cornerstone of our family and our village. A vibrant, spirited woman, she was known far and wide for her African traditional beer—a brew so rich, flavorful, and undeniably magical that it had the entire village coming back for more. For years, I chalked up her brewing prowess to nothing more than old-fashioned skill and perhaps a sprinkle of ancestral blessings. That is, until one fateful night when a runny tummy changed everything.
It was one of those nights when your stomach feels like it's waging a personal vendetta. Unable to sleep, I crept out of bed and tiptoed through the darkened house toward the bathroom. Passing by the kitchen, I noticed something unusual: a faint glow and muffled chatter. My curiosity piqued, I peeked through the slightly open door.
What I saw nearly stopped my heart.
There, in the middle of the kitchen, was a group of monkeys, busily at work. They weren’t rummaging through food or causing chaos as one might expect. No, they were brewing beer. Each monkey had a task—grinding ingredients, stirring pots, and even tasting the mixture with an air of expertise that would put seasoned brewers to shame.
For a moment, I stood frozen, questioning my sanity. Was I dreaming? Or maybe the stomachache had messed with my mind? But no, this was real. The monkeys worked with the kind of efficiency that only comes with practice. It was then that the pieces fell into place: this was my grandmother's secret ingredient.
It then hit me that I had never seen my grandmother brewing her beer. Infact every night by 8pm she would be sleeping already but in the morning we woke up to freshly brewed beer.
The monkeys were the magic behind her beer, quite literally. Their presence explained why her brew was unlike any other in the region. It wasn’t just skill—it was something otherworldly.
The next morning, I confronted her, trembling with a mix of fear and awe. “Gogo,” I began hesitantly, “I saw the monkeys last night.”
Her eyes narrowed for a split second before she let out a laugh, rich and unbothered. “Ah, you’ve grown up, haven’t you?” she said, motioning for me to sit. That’s when she told me everything.
My grandmother wasn’t just a skilled brewer; she was a witch, a custodian of ancient knowledge passed down through generations. The monkeys were her helpers, summoned through rituals and bound to her service. They collected rare herbs, prepared the mixtures, and ensured that the beer was infused with just the right touch of mysticism.
“You must never tell anyone,” she warned, her tone suddenly grave. “This is our family’s legacy, and not everyone would understand ".
Looking back, everything about the village’s obsession with her beer made sense. It wasn’t just the taste—it was the feeling it invoked. People said they felt lighter, happier, even a bit luckier after a sip. It was as if her brew carried a piece of the divine.
Her business thrived, and she remained the heart of the community, her secret safely guarded. As for me, I never looked at my grandmother the same way again. She wasn’t just the loving matriarch of our family; she was a force of nature, a bridge between the ordinary and the extraordinary.
To this day, I often think about that night and the weight of her secret. My grandmother has long since passed, but her legacy lingers. While I haven’t quite mastered the art of summoning monkeys (nor am I sure I want to), I’ve come to appreciate the magic in her work—not just in the supernatural sense, but in the love, care, and tradition she poured into every batch.
Some secrets are worth keeping, but others, like the story of how I discovered my grandmother was a witch, are worth sharing—if only to remind us of the magic that surrounds us, even in the most unexpected places.Have you ever uncovered a family secret that changed the way you saw someone you loved? Let me know in the comments below!
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